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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭-𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐟
𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐
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H E R
I don't want to talk about what happened that night. Or that morning. The blending between the two where the sky changed over our heads, on our knees with weapons aimed at us from every direction. I don't want to talk about it. None of it.
I don't want to talk about Abraham. Or Glenn. How their brains, their memories, their thoughts, were spilled out in grey matter over the gravel before me.
I don't want to talk about how I cried. How I knelt there, so incompetent and useless, tears and snot running down my face. Frozen with fear, eyes unblinking, like maybe if I closed them everything around me would disappear. I remember there was a time when I could not cry no matter how hard I tried. It felt like ages ago.
I don't want to talk about how that night marked the third time I had cried in over three years.
I don't want to talk about him... You know, I used to like the name Lucille, I always thought it was pretty. But then I met Lucille.
I used to be a person who knew things. Now I am not too sure what I am.
I thought I knew what death looked like.
I thought I knew what fear felt like.
I thought I knew what hate was.
I thought I knew what monsters were.
I thought I knew the extent of the horrific, brutal acts humans can do unto one another.
I had been so ignorant, so blissfully unaware despite being so sure I knew how bad it could get.
But now I know it could always get worse.
Which it did.
Back at Woodbury and the Prison I had toted around a book called War and Peace. If I had learned anything from reading it, it was that sometimes you don't realize that you're in a time of peace until war has reared its ugly head through your softened defenses.
